Facing Up
by OrangeShipper
Summary: Mary's not in time to make amends, but still gains a little something. M/M, post s1 with mild series 2 spoilers. Backstory behind an s2ep1 scene.


A/N: _So essentially, this was begging for a backstory. This is one possible take on it that I could see!_

_Originally posted to MMMondayMadness LJ community._

_Enjoy! :)_

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><p><strong>Facing Up<strong>

Before the car had even fully stopped, Mary threw open the door and stepped out, as quickly as she could whilst still maintaining some decorum.

"Thank you, Branson," she threw over her shoulder as she hurried to the door and rapped sharply on it.

Tapping her foot impatiently, she chewed her lip and clasped and unclasped her hands in nervous agitation until the door opened, after what seemed like an age.

"Ah, good morning Lady –"

"Oh, Molesley, is Mr Crawley in?" she burst out before he'd finished his greeting. She was sure she'd judged the time right, she'd had to get up terrifically early but his train didn't leave for another hour…

Molesley hesitated a moment.

"I'm – afraid Mr Crawley's already left, Milday."

"What?" She froze. She wouldn't believe it, there must be some mistake! She looked at the little watch on her belt. "His train doesn't leave for –"

"No, Milady – it's – already gone." Molesley seemed to squirm uncomfortably as he spoke, unsure of how to deal with the denial on Mary's face.

"It can't have."

The butler hesitated a moment, wondering how much he should say. Mary was staring at him with wide, disbelieving eyes, though, and he sensed she was going to demand answers.

"I'm afraid that Mr Crawley's train has already – left – Milady. A half hour ago." Molesley looked apologetic. How was he supposed to tell Lady Mary that Mr Crawley had lied about what time his train would be, precisely to avoid an encounter such as this? He'd not even wanted his mother to wish him off at the station.

Molesley suspected, though, in the way that she suddenly seemed to deflate, that Lady Mary had understood his meaning well enough regardless.

"Oh," Mary exclaimed quietly, her hands tightening on her clutch bag. Attempting desperately to cover her reaction, she dipped her head for a fleeting second and tried to fix a bright, nonchalant smile to her lips. "Well, I must have been mistaken. I'm sorry to have troubled you, please excuse –"

"Mary?"

Molesley turned around, and Mary looked past him, to see Isobel appear behind him in the corridor having heard voices at the door.

"Cousin Isobel!" Mary greeted her with a strained voice. "I was just –" She faltered, realising how pathetic the truth would sound but too dazed to come up with an excuse swiftly enough. Her shoulders dropped as a little sigh slipped out, and she smiled resignedly at Isobel. "I'd hoped to catch Matthew before he left."

"Ah." Isobel stepped past Molesley who shrank back into the hallway, and cast her eyes over Mary, appraising her.

She just couldn't work her out. Matthew had loved her, she knew that much, and had made an effort for his sake to see in her the qualities that he did. She had begun to see them, eventually, the warmth Mary exuded near him and how the way she spoke to and smiled at him was quite different than to anybody else... But then she had hurt him. Matthew had been so sure, they all had, making her hesitation sting all the more. She'd not seen Matthew in such a state of distress for years. Driven even to the point of taking the first opportunity he could to escape to this insane war. Because of the young woman standing in front of her, with wide, sad eyes and a trembling, defeated smile.

As she perceived her, her quiet distress, and regret, Isobel could not find it within her to hold it against Mary. She wasn't sure yet if she could forgive her, for injuring her dear son so deeply, but somehow she understood that there must be more to it than she knew, for Mary's demeanour now was not that of someone who hadn't cared for Matthew. Who didn't still.

"Do forgive me for disturbing your morning –" Mary was excusing herself even as she turned away to retreat.

"Won't you come in for some tea?" Isobel felt an enormous, quite unexpected rush of pity for her, and smiled gently.

"Oh, I'd..." Mary's instinctive response was to cordially refuse, for she certainly deserved no kindness from Matthew's mother, of all people. But something within her, a desire that she rarely entertained for understanding and comfort, stopped her. "I'd appreciate that very much, thank you."

With Molesley dispatched to prepare tea, Mary followed Isobel into the sitting room. Whilst Isobel immediately resumed her seat on the settee, Mary remained for a moment in the middle of the room, looking slightly lost.

"Do please sit down," Isobel invited her. This seemed to surprise Mary, who nodded quickly and sat in the nearest chair, only realising once she'd done so that it was the chair normally favoured by Matthew. She stiffened, perched tensely on the edge of it, but realised that to move again now would only draw attention to her. Uneasily, she forced herself to relax a little.

But what had they to say to each other? It was all very well to sit, and have tea and make nice, but what then? Mary took a tentative sip.

"Thank you," she smiled politely.

Isobel smiled back, then placed her teacup down, with a great deal of thought.

"How are you, Mary?" It had only just occurred to her that, just maybe, all this was as hard for Mary as for anyone.

Mary blinked at her searching expression, at how terribly _deep_ the question seemed. As though Isobel _knew_, somehow, understood her.

"I'll be very well in a little while," she eventually conceded. In a little while. Not just yet, but soon, she would recover from this.

Isobel's gaze continued to pierce her, and Mary shifted uncomfortably. For the first time, she realised where Matthew had inherited his intensity of expression.

"I _will_ be," she said, only slightly more convincingly. Why should Isobel care, anyway? She felt herself unravelling slowly, and sighed. "I suppose I feel... like I wish I'd done some things very differently," she finished in a small voice, staring into her tea.

Isobel nodded slowly. "I think you're probably not the only one to think so, Mary dear," she said, not unkindly. "But there are two sides to every coin. It shan't comfort you much, but I believe Matthew's made his share of mistakes, too."

Mary chuckled lightly. "It hardly makes a difference now, does it," she sighed, and followed Isobel's gaze, which had thankfully shifted from her, to the mantelpiece over the fire.

Her lips parted wordlessly as she noticed for the first time the photograph there.

Frozen into a fixed, but still handsome, smile, was Matthew. And it was _Matthew_ – just as she loved him. The last few times they'd met, his expression had been twisted with bitterness, sorrow, regret, all of which she knew she had caused. In the photograph, though, was her Matthew… Despite its stillness, she could still detect the sparkle in his eyes, see the confident, charming smile, his perfectly respectable (if not very elegant) suit, which now must be replaced by a uniform.

And she had let him go.

Her sigh was so audible that it caused Isobel's gaze to turn, and she was taken aback by the unguarded longing in Mary's expression. Her heart suddenly ached for the both of them. She couldn't understand why things had ended as they had – oh, she had an idea, everyone had some idea, but seeing Mary now gazing so dearly at only the image of her son – she realised that it could not have been for lack of care.

Unwilling though she was to break Mary's peace, eventually Isobel felt she must say something.

"You could write to him," she ventured tentatively.

Mary almost flinched, her gaze torn from Matthew's photograph. She couldn't help but glance back distractedly at it as she spoke.

"I could," she said, with a tight, sad smile, "but what good would it do?" She shrugged a little. "Matthew is as stubborn as I am. He has no more cause to believe me now than he did a week ago. And," she sighed, "I hardly want to burden him further with it, now he's…"

Her voice trailed off. Now he was going to war. Nothing could sway him now but the truth, the truth which would only turn him from her further. He didn't need the weight of her indiscretions now, she had injured him enough already. Perhaps, if she'd have _seen_ him today… But she hadn't. He hadn't wanted to. And a letter would not suffice.

"Think about it, Mary," Isobel gently pleaded. For both their sakes.

"I can promise you I will," she sighed, her gaze drifting back to his photograph. She would do little else but think about it. About him.

In a moment, she seemed to come to her senses, ashamed of the weakness she was showing in front of Isobel. Affixing a bright smile to her face, she stood, and brushed her skirts down.

"Don't let me keep you any longer, though, Cousin Isobel," she breezed. Back to her familiar self, though it took some effort. "Thank you for your kindness," she said seriously.

"Of course." Isobel imagined that Mary had revealed more than enough, and was regretting it. Again, she felt a wave of sympathy for her. "I'll let you know when Matthew writes, how he's doing."

"Oh, please don't trouble yourself." Mary tried, and failed, to look unconcerned.

Isobel nodded, smiled.

Mary picked up her small bag and made her way to the front door. Before she could reach it, though, Isobel's hand on her arm stopped her. She turned, brows raised in polite expectation.

"Here," Isobel held something out. "Take it."

Mary looked down, and gasped lightly.

"I couldn't –"

"Please. I have more, I shan't miss this one."

Moistening her lips, which were suddenly terribly dry, Mary took the photograph with a trembling hand.

"Thank you," she whispered, raising her eyes to Isobel's in quiet, inexpressible gratitude.

Isobel's lips twitched in understanding, and she watched as Mary slipped it into her bag and turned, stepping through the door and down the drive without another look back.

Over the following weeks, months, years, the photograph stayed for the most part locked safely in Mary's drawer. She barely liked to look at it, it was too precious, and… sometimes, she just wanted to forget. To see his face, smiling so innocently out at her, brought crashing back to mind how she had thrown their chance away, what she had driven him to… and she could not bear it.

Sometimes, though… Sometimes, she would take it out, only at night once the house was quiet, and look at it, and allow herself to remember him. She would lean on her elbow, place it in front of her, and trace her finger reverently over his handsome features, and wish that she had done things differently. She'd sigh, allow silent tears to fall, and always running through her mind would be the mantra… _Stay safe. Stay safe. Please, stay safe…_

The thought was never addressed to anyone or anything in particular. A part of her was in denial about it all, it was too painful to think of. She just knew that she needed him to stay safe, as though the power of her thought alone could manage it.

Until the evening he came back.

No, not the evening he came back… The night that he'd left again.

That night, she prayed.

**Fin**

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><p>AN: _Thanks so much for reading! As ever, any thoughts/comments would be hugely appreciated :) Thank you!_


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